New post on CKN

This time, on volunteering . . . it does a body good!

xo,

Sarah

Have you seen the latest?

My newest post for the Cancer Knowledge Network is here. All about babies . . . or lack thereof.

xo,

Sarah

Moving on . . . .

Last night and today have been interesting. Poor L. got the stomach bug that's been going around, and so last night I stayed up with her, holding hair and wiping mouth. Washing my hands more times than any manicurist would condone. And as of 4:30 today, we're both still in jammies, recovering. She's eaten, and is now asleep on the shag rug in the kitchen t.v. nook. I'm wondering if I'm coming down with what she's had or just reeling from the ikitude of vomit. I cannot STAND vomit.

But here's what I realized today. On the brink of feeling sorry for myself (. . . my productive day is shot to hell, I can't go get fitted for the new bras I desperately want and need, I feel like crap from being up most of the night . . . ), I re-framed and realized that this is EXACTLY where I want to be. Just a normal mother who's home with a barfing child. This is my WORST PROBLEM today. And that is just so frickin' great. How's that for re-framing finesse?

And to add to my good mood, an email came from the folks at the Cancer Knowledge Network. They've published an essay I wrote on how I learned to meditate during Cancer Round I. And they want more. I have a schedule of their upcoming topics and they want to do a series. Someone wants to hear what I have to say about living with cancer for the last decade?! You can see my latest here. And don't worry, I won't hesitate to shamelessly self-promote here when new stuff comes out.

So here's to sick days and cancer . . . and to good moods in spite of them.

xo,

Sarah

Cold cold cold like an ice cream cone

Just back from my first follow-up with my breast surgeon since surgery. She's the one who does the digging out of all the breast tissue and the sentinel node biopsies, and then steps aside for the plastic surgeon to rebuild you. I have felt a great fondness toward her over the 10+ years I've known her, and she is a surgeon to the stars - an expert in her field and with an unusual amount of humanity for a surgeon. She is special.

But today's visit left me cold. I think it's me, but might be a little her fault, too. First off, I felt something akin to mild panic as I made my way to suite 9A again . . . the last time I was there was when my dear Dr. Y. told me and DI that he was a mastectomy advocate. And the time before that was our 5 hour, one room ordeal. I had to rush like a madwoman to make it there for my appointment early this a.m., only to wait over 1/2 hour for the doc today. My blood pressure and my ire were up already, going in.

Then she arrives to do the exam. She doesn't remember "the rash," and passes the buck to anesthesiology to get a copy of the inter-op report over the the allergists, and then proceeds to tell me that things look, "really, pretty OK" and that "if you prop them both up into a bra, well, I bet you can't see any difference." And although, yes, I know that I am not the proud owner of a perfectly matched set of breasts (thank you, Cancer Round I), hearing your surgeon say something like this is stinging. Guess what? I'm not going to be in the book she shows to women contemplating this surgery. I'm only an "OK" outcome, cosmetically.

Whatev. Moving on. Not new news. Topless dancing career is over, anyway. I tie my Johnny back up and she sits down to debrief me on the plan going forward. 1% chance of recurrence. No screening at all, ever again. That's right. She says no mammos, no MRIs. Ever, ever again. All the breast tissue that remains in me has been pushed forward to the surface - it's what makes up the wafer-thin envelope she left behind that encapsulates my implants. So if something's there, she says, I'll feel it. Like a "mosquito bite" that "won't go away" she says.

OK, that's nice. But I've had 2 cancers, one very serious one, that were never palpable. And that 1% she's quoting is for DCIS patients, and my first cancer was a crazy invasive wild-woman. Maybe my risk of mets is the same from that, but now I'm down to 1% because I've had the amputations? I'm waiting to check in with Dr. Y. on this one. I see him in a couple of months.

So I'll follow-up with her in a year, because "breasts are dynamic" - and although I know she means "changeable" and that's what my PT has told me, too, I smile inside to think of my super-hero implants and how now only do I have a dynamic personality, but dynamic tits. Yeah!

But then there's this - "down the road," she says, "we may need to replace your implants." "You have a pretty good life expectancy," she went on, and I'm thinking "Pretty good? Why not excellent?" And she goes on to explain how they "might, at some point," need to swap out implants. I replied, "Well, I should HOPE I'll need them replaced as they've only got a 10-15 year life-span and I hope to be at least 80 before I kick the bucket." And she said "We have no idea how long they'll last," implying that they might last my lifetime. What the what?? Maybe I'll get lucky and get 20 years out of these things, but freak, I'm 42, can you IMAGINE that these'll last for 40-some-odd years? I've never heard such a thing, even from the rose-colored-glasses-wearing implant manufacturers themselves. I think that's just plain dreaming.

And that was it. Schedule a follow-up with her in a year, seeyalaterbye.

And yet again, I came out of there with mixed feelings:

1. Excited, because I don't have to have any more routine screenings if I don't want to;
2. Pissed, because I feel that some of her information was inaccurate, and if I were not a woman who researched things to death, off I'd go hoping that I'd have these water sacs in my chest for life, and thus be woefully disappointed when, in 10-15 years, I have flat boobs;
3. A little sad, because I've gone through all this and ended up with less than spectacular foobs; and
4. Set adrift.

You are reading the words of a 42-year-old woman who currently sees no fewer than 9, yes 9 doctors regularly. And who, until recently, has gotten a mammogram annually, and MRIs EVERY SIX MONTHS. So if you do the math, I've been seeing some sort of medical professional or having some test (or both, sometimes 3 or more in a month) EVERY SINGLE MONTH OF EVERY SINGLE YEAR FOR THE LAST 10 YEARS. So while I applaud the gains in free time and the reduction in my consumption of contrast dye, I still feel a little like I went through a revolving door too fast and got spit out the other side. I don't quite know where I am right now.

I'll find my way, I always do. And chatting w/Dr. Y. about real recurrence numbers and whether MRIs might really be helpful will put my mind at ease. But I guess what this a.m. did was pull me back by the collar a little . . . to say "Hey! Your head's not all wrapped neatly around this latest episode yet." It's a reminder that I'm fresh out of the box, still. A newly-minted "two-time survivor."

And that I don't know what this means, yet.

xo,

Sarah

Today, a new page

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

~Albert Einstein

We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called "Opportunity" and its first chapter is New Year's Day.

~Edith L. Pierce

Here's to a new year, one filled with promise, health and abundant happiness for all. Thanks for getting me through the last six months, everyone. Couldn't have done it without you.

xo,

Sarah

3 Month Postoperversary

The times that I feel moved to post are further and further apart, and that's a good sign. Because what you want to happen when you go through cancer, is for it to begin to recede into the background, eventually. For it to not take up so much space in your head. For your body not to remind you every single minute that it's been traumatized. For your mind to dwell on other things.

Like your thighs.

I have always hated my thighs. They're sturdy. I am not built for speed, instead, I am, as my father has pointed out, built for famine. I am stocky and hardy - and no, not willowy. I always, always have wanted to be willowy.

Well, when I was first diagnosed with cancer in '01, I suddenly realized that I could care less about my thighs. I was so stressed out about not being able to have a baby, having to get chemo, what I was going to do about work, and, well, yes, dying, that my thighs zoomed down and off the "to-worry-about" list. It was refreshing, in a sick way. I was prioritizing, and really, what the hell was I going to do about my thighs, anyway? Gotta work with what you're given. Head down, fought the cancer. Won. Check!

Moving on, the hoopla washed away and gradually, the thigh-angst started up again. As before, I tackled them with squats & lunges and did the best I could to "play up my assets," as they say in Glamour.

And then, whammo, Cancer Round II. And who can worry about thighs when your breasts are being removed? Not me. Again, off the list.

But you know what? They're back. In all their gelatinous glory. Three months of recovery has made me go a little soft all around the edges, and today, I really hit the wall with the thighs. I know it's not right. I'm a middle-aged woman. I'm not supposed to care. But I do. Now that the foobs are squared away, I'm back to squatting, lunging, and angsting.

It's good, right?

xo,

Sarah

Reminder: Mother Nature is in charge

I've been feeling pretty darn good lately, and it's been really exciting to be doing things again, seeing people again, being out of the house and into life again. But for the past few days, I've been really dragging. There, I'm admitting it. It's out there.

I'd like to blame it on the season - we all know that responsibilities are quadrupled this time of year, right? Add to that keeping up with daily exercise, twice-a-week PT, solo-parenting for a week, participating in and even spearheading after-school and evening activities and events - well, even if I weren't eleven weeks post-op, I'd be dragging.

So I have been trying to take it easy, but it's just been too tempting. And there's this little problem of there only being 24 hours in the day. I've been pushing through, I'll admit. A little draggy before spin class yesterday? No matter. A mug of gunpowder tea, throw on the spandex, strap on the heart rate monitor, and I was there. I did the class, met a friend, came home, showered, met L. and a friend at school, hosted a play date, made dinner, dealt with reservations, signed up for a class, and fell into bed around 10. Nada problemo, right?

Well, wrong. I can do more today, but my body is really nagging me. It's like a toddler's pulling on my pant leg, whining, "When are we gonna lie down? Is now when we're gonna lie down?" So after I did errands this morning, I realized I needed to call the rest of the day off (until I chaperon the Brownie field trip, that is - but that, my friends, is a non-negotiable). So I have. No Pilates lesson for me, and although I know that this is the responsible thing to do, I'm pissed off about it.

Remember how I was content the other day? Well today? Not so much. There - see? We knew that'd be short-lived. I guess I should clarify - I'm still OK with the foobs, yada yada yada: I'm just frustrated that I can't have it all back right.this.minute.dammit.

But whoa, step back, perspective time. I just closed out 10 weeks post-op. I've been told by more than a few experts that it will take a year to feel completely like myself again. I know I'll be doing more, well before that time, but I'm still at the front side of the continuum of sitting on my ass . . . to racing around like the maniac I am.

My PT says it, over and over again: "Mother Nature is in charge, Sarah. We have to let Mother Nature do her job." Sigh. Just like you never want to admit your mother's right, so it goes with Nancy the PT. But often, both the PT and the mother know best.

So I'm crawling into bed for the next hour, 'til I have to help shuttle 18 8- and 9-year-old girls through Whole Foods Market and talk about nutrition. After which, I will come home, perform the bare minimum of duties to satisfy my own maternal obligations, and collapse into bed. And tomorrow? I'm giving myself a time-out. 'Cause I can't stand a whiny toddler.

xo,

Sarah